


Service Wolf

by orphan_account



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 16:40:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13104258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Norman Polk gains one (1) friend.





	Service Wolf

It was never silent.

Even when the “angel” wasn’t singing, when the ink demon and his horrible lackies weren’t squirming and splashing, when Sammy was quiet out of respect for his ‘savior’, even when the noise of the projector stopped for just a moment, the loud hum of the machine was audible on every floor of the forsaken building. 

No matter what Norman Polk did, it never stopped humming - like a little demon in his ears, constantly tormenting him ontop of the loud and angry gears of the projector that had been secured to his head. Guess that’s why he’s really THE Projectionist now, but that’s besides the point - he hates the ink machine, he hates his life, and nothing will get better.

The defeated ink projector man thing (honestly, what does he even call himself anymore?) defeatedly slams his back against a wall, knocking the back of the projector agains the wood, hard. This was enough to shut off the whirring, his light flickering off and reducing his vision to the same way his hearing was - completely useless. He slides down, flopping into a lazy sitting pose and stretches out his legs that ache from weeks from walking.

Ugh, things weren’t getting better by a long shot.

He wonders if he looks dead to the ink monsters, briefly, and suddenly feels something cold and wet nudge his hand. Okay, true, all the ink is cold and wet, but this was different. Too tired to fight, or to even turn on his projector to see what it was, he just lifts his hand up to let the thing nudging him do whatever. To his suprise, soft fur takes the place of the cold wet, and Norman decides that one hell of a lucky dog has made its was down here.

Wait, dog?

There’s no way a dog could get down here. It would be dead from the ink monsters, which means...

That’s right.

Boris.

If he had the ability to, the Projectionist would smile, but instead feels for the wolf’s ears and starts to idly scratch behind them. This seems to encourage Boris, who starts moving closer, to Norman’s side. The act is rewarded with more pets, and eventually Boris is comfortably laying in the Projectionist’s lap, tail thumping against the wall and making some kind of pleased wolf noise (at least, that’s what Norman hopes it is).

Okay, this isn’t bad. Probably the best time he’s had in months of being down here with a stupid projector lodged on his head. The dark was calming, Boris was here, and not even the dull throb of the machine can bring him down.

Maybe it’s not so bad down here.


End file.
